


The Network

by Lunarium



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Untold in any tale of the First Age is that of the network of assassins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Network

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solanaceae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/gifts).



> Written for Solanaceae who requested Lalwen's role in Middle-earth. This story offers a small glimpse. I had fun coming up with the idea and would love to revisit the idea again in the future. :) 
> 
> Many thanks to yuyeh-sesh for the beta-read! :)

All the orcs, save for one, who were crossing the tributary lay in a field of blood and corpses. Crimson ran in the river feeding into Rivil’s Well, which the final orc standing studied with detached interest, perhaps unaware of the true horror of death or having surrendered to its own coming demise, as both his arms were chopped off. The stillness was not enough to bring mercy in her heart and still her own dagger, drenched in orc blood, which she pressed to his throat. 

The army of the orcs had been taken unawares, a slippery shadow which flickered for a moment in their peripheral vision before overtaking them completely. None had the merest sight or scent of her before, or even heard a single snap of twig at her coming. Even now she stood as if invisible, clad in shadow save for a black mesh she wore over her serpentine face, eyes behind them blazing as golden flames. No tale among the orcs told of such an enemy more brutal than the very servants of Morgoth, for none who met her or her sisters survived to tell such tales. 

Gripping thick, matted hair, she pulled his head back. “Tell me now what scheme your master brews, and I may release you, fiend,” she commanded, her words slipping out as a dark cold hiss. The orc’s nostrils flared, but he refused to open his mouth. 

“You need but tell, your only chance for life, or join your fellows in death.” 

The tiniest fluttering in the forest drew her attention, and looking beyond the orc’s shoulder to meet another pair of yellow eyes in the deep. The orc before her noticed too and stirred, not knowing she was far from the only of her kind. 

A series of hisses and clicking of the tongues filled the skies, which stirred a chill down the orc’s back. 

“It appears this _orch_ fears us more than any servant of Morgoth,” she said to the one among the trees. “Unfortunately for him, time has run out.” 

And the blade finally claimed the orc’s life. 

_Sksksksksksksk_ came from the trees, and she turned her eyes, hissing in response by clicking her tongue. This went on for a few more moments, the clad figure checking about herself for any surviving enemies still lurking. Then in a single hop, she slipped into the forest, disappearing in the shadows. The great pine trees stretched high above, perfect to cloak them both. The other woman led her from branch to branch of the vast pine forest and north up the highlands, the hisses issuing from her lips carrying a conversation in the darkness. 

Passing by a small glade, more voices met them, their hisses and tongue-clicking steering their attention to the tallest trees ahead. With great ease they climbed the thick branches before their feet found the staircases built by one of their number years before. 

When they had reached the talan, they each bowed to their fellow warriors and removed their masks. 

“Status, Lady Lalwen? Lady Tuluwen?” 

“All the orcs passing the Rivil have been assassinated,” Lalwen reported. 

“As have the ones heading northward, but no hostages were found in either party,” added Tuluwen while Lalwen regarded the faces of her fellow warriors.

Women of the races of Elves and of Men made up the secret network, with another branch of dwarves who worked deep in their mountains. Of the elves, most were of the Avari tribes, the green elves, and the Sindar; and they were of Beleriand or far east of the Blue Mountains, some as far as the eastern most shores, from where Tuluwen came and from whose peoples she fashioned the structure of the network. Lalwen herself was one of the very few Noldo, and she used her status among them to preserve a fair image of her people, for far too many were suspicious still of the kinslayers. 

Their activities were unknown to any outside of themselves, for they kept to a low profile, as noblewomen, servants of noble houses, minstrels, cooks, handmaidens, craftswomen, and traders. Silently they gathered information of the ongoings of the land, and assailed and assassinated any orc which came too close to their lands. They had been successful for the most part, but since the day fire rained from Angband, they doubled their efforts. 

The masks they wore disfigured and disguised their features. They were Môriol’s invention, as the Kinn-lai were among the greatest spinners of enchantments among the elves, and it kept their identity a complete mystery to the orcs. Their strange language as well - the hisses, tongue-clicks, and guttural sounds - was a secret tongue constructed collectively by the network. Every fortnight they regrouped to alter the tongue so that no enemy may decipher their language, shifting _dh_ to _ġ_ , or at times eliminating all vowel sounds (or, as they had done for a time, using only vowels.)

“Is everyone present or their absence accounted for?” Lalwen asked. 

“All present save for Roswen,” Aewen reported. “But she must be returning from her station at Mithrim as we speak.” 

Lalwen nodded. “What is the status for everyone else here?” 

“It is grave, I’m afraid,” Belloth of the Nandor said. “We continue to search for survivors, but what we do find we cannot identify the bodies, whatever remains of them.” 

“We have come to just count the bodies and not seek them from the names of the citizens we knew who had lived and worked in the region,” Nemirel of the Hwenti added. “The Grey-elves and Dark-elves have fled to Doriath, which Thenin had kept a record of. But the Noldor have suffered losses the most from our count.” 

“All orcs that cross our paths south, we’ve taken down,” Eregeth of the Haladin added. “We do not find survivors among them, as their order was to kill anyone they came across.” 

“My brother’s sons were among those slain,” Lalwen said sadly. Gingerly she made her way to the very top of the treetop, anchoring herself straight and not disturbing the tree upon which she stood on tiptoe. She peered over the remaining trees of the forest, taking in the charred remains of what was once the Ard-galen. She gave another silent prayer for Aegnor and Angrod, all the while grateful her wife had not left Valinor. Perhaps till now the parchments collected the drops of tears, but it would be better than to watch the soil collect the drops of blood. Let her wife hate her; she was at the least safe from witnessing such horrors. 

The network continued to share their findings with one another as Lalwen gazed out, and the chatter only died down when the last of their number had reached them. Roswen, the other Noldo in the Network, pulled away her mask, her haunted eyes fixed on Lalwen. 

“My lady, I’m afraid there is grave news,” she said softly, and the manner in which her voice hitched and she glanced away brought a chill over Lalwen’s heart. Although she said no more, an ill understanding of her news settled in the back of Lalwen’s mind, as though it were uttered in swaying tree branches and wind. She dropped from the treetop, landing lightly on the talan, and took several steps closer to the woman. 

“What happened to my brother King Fingolfin?” she demanded. The others moved not one inch, a thick silence felt even on the frail leaves above their heads. 

“The damages got to him,” Roswen spoke at last. “He vowed vengeance against Morgoth, and rode to face him alone. I sought to prevent him, but he would take no council! And the next I heard, he was slain, though he had in turn injured the Dark Foe. One of the great eagles bore him away, where to I do not know. The city is in mourning.” 

The silence, ringing though none spoke, turned to Lalwen before averting their gaze in sympathy and grief. Though she kept her face still, her insides tore and twisted with utter disbelief. “The High King of the Noldor is dead - _my brother is dead_?” 

Roswen bowed her head. “My deepest condolences, my lady. He now resides with the great king Finwë in the Halls of Mandos. May he find peace there.” 

Others too stepped forth to offer their respects. 

“He returns now to the stars, and may he shine forevermore,” Môriol said. 

“We will light a candle so he may easily navigate the dark to his final resting place,” Nemirel said. 

More came, but the words grew dim in Lalwen’s ears, the ringing silence of before filling her mind instead. She had to remind her of Roswen’s words, that she was not still looking out of the blackened dead ground of the now Anfauglith, praying in respect for her fallen nephews. 

She hopped off the tree, turned westwards, and head out, but none of the others made to stop her. She moved as if in a trance, the news still a heavy cold weight in the pit of her stomach. Only when she was well out of sight did she break into a run, not bothering with replacing her disguise.

*

Not a body stirred in the halls of the king in Mithrim, and it was only the chilly air and grey skies which greeted Lalwen. All recognized her as the sister of King Fingolfin and bowed their heads, their grief so great they did not take note of her odd attire, a woman clad as shadow. She slipped through hall after hall undisturbed, and only stopped when she caught sight of Nethien, trailed by her two children Erien and Gil-galad. The latter was only five or six years in age, though no less than solemn-faced, understanding well why his mother and sister were in mourning.

Nethien looked up just as Lalwen gripped her hands, the old spark in her eyes dimmed in grief. “Where is your husband?”

“Two halls down, in the former king’s chambers,” she answered, her eyes taking in Lalwen’s attire, but Lalwen left before she could get another word out. 

_My brother’s chambers, of course_ , she thought. _He is not yet dead, but I must see him before he draws his last breath._

But Fingon sat alone, his father’s bed still neatly made but for Fingolfin’s crown settled on the dark sapphire bedding. 

Fingon, as his wife, held nothing of the old cheer of his normal self. Lalwen remembered both, Findekáno and Yulien as they were known in Valinor, always smiling and laughing, always the first to dance with Lalwen at festivals, always seeing the brighter side of any darkness. But Fingon now sat hunched over, a man whose very spirit had been sucked away from him. It was clear he had been pulling at his hair, as he was wont to do when he was in distress, the dark locks slipping out from the gold filigree he always wove with his plaits.

“Where is Ñolo?” She could not prevent slipping into using the _epessë_ she used for her brother. 

Fingon glanced up, weary with grief. “The crown he left here before departing, as though he knew he was not to return. And he never did. His body was taken far from here, for what reason I do not know. I’ve sent a dove to Turgon if he may know.” 

“There is no body then?” she asked. She had refused to accept Fingolfin was gone, hoping she would come into the room and find him in his bed, fighting for his life but nonetheless alive. If he were to indeed pass into the Halls, she needed to bid him a final farewell.

But there was no body, and Fingon sat beside his father’s bed and wept, refusing to touch the crown. She placed a hand upon his shoulder, and he drew to his feet, embracing her. She could not recall ever a time having to comfort her brother’s eldest, a child so sunny in disposition, just as she too were. She had wept before, when she left Valinor without her wife accompanying her. And now it seemed pointless to remain, if her brother no longer lived on this land. 

“It is yours,” he finally said. “You are the next eldest. I know my cousin will just refuse the crown as he had before. His own agendas differ from Father’s own.” 

“A king’s crown cannot be worn by a woman, no matter how worthy you think me to be,” Lalwen said. “Is it you who must now wear it, for you are his eldest, as is the tradition of our people.” 

His eyes glanced back at the crown, unwilling to move it from the spot Fingolfin had left it. 

“And once I wear it, how much longer before I befall a similar fate as him?” he said. “Or will it be my fate to grief next for my wife or children?” 

Lalwen squeezed his shoulder. “Do not think of such things during a dark time. Your wife and children can be taken elsewhere, if you think this land is no longer safe for them. Send them to Falas. I know someone who will watch over them.” 

Fingon nodded slowly. Lalwen silently cursed Morgoth and swore to end the life of as many armies of orcs as she could locate. 

Lalwen broke away from their embrace and picked up the crown. After smoothing out Fingon’s hair, she placed the crown upon his head. 

“It fits you well,” she said, offering him an encouraging smile. “Go out there. Address your people. They are awaiting their king.” 

Silently, he approached the large mirror to study his reflection before heading for the door. Out on the corridor, Lalwen turned the other direction, and Fingon called her back. 

“Where are you going?” he said. “I mean, I have never seen you wear this. Did my father have you set out on a task?” 

“Your place is here. My place is outside these walls, and, no, Fingolfin knew nothing of this or he would have stopped me.” She replaced on her mask, regarding her nephew who gave a start at her appearance, no longer Lalwen his aunt but Lalwen the assassin.

“What do you plan to do now?” he asked. 

“Revenge.”


End file.
